


Saturation Point

by tsuristyle



Category: SMAP
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8934343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsuristyle/pseuds/tsuristyle
Summary: Nakai, and a rainstorm.(Set in 2007. Warnings for a break-up, a stalker, and a family member passing away. Written May 2013.)





	

_saturation point, n.  
1\. The point at which a substance will receive no more of another substance in solution.  
2\. The point at which no more can be absorbed or assimilated._  
  
  
The rain started just as Nakai was climbing out of his car.  
  
He cursed; naturally, on a day like this, the usual parking lot was full and he hadn't brought an umbrella. He slammed the door and made a break for it through the cold autumn downpour, trying to shield the worst of it with his jacket.  
  
In the elevator, he listened to the sound of the motor humming. His hair dripped onto his shoulders and down to the metal floor. He didn't really care about that. A man he didn't recognize got on after him. He pulled his hat down and breathed in and focused on the hum of the motor. Breathe out.  
  
The stylist clucked at him when he came in, and a thorough hair-drying later he was feeling wind-blown and smelled like Goro. He didn't feel any warmer, though. He changed and sat down for a smoke.  
  
The quiet rushed in around him, pressing against his ears.  
  
  
He could still remember the way her breasts had felt in his hands, smooth, full, overflowing from his fingers when he cradled them and ran his thumbs across the nipples. He'd liked them a lot.  
  
He'd liked _her_ , too. She was sexy and interesting and hadn't minded his off-camera personality, at least at first. But he wasn't twenty-something anymore, he wasn't adventurous or energetic or particularly social, he was stubborn and tired and he liked being alone most of the time. Maybe she'd thought that would change eventually.  
  
It hadn't. It wasn't going to. He didn't want to change, and he didn't really know how to express that. He didn't like being open anymore, not to people he didn't know well enough, and it turned out that that had included her.  
  
Maybe if she'd given him a little more time-- no, they'd already been expecting different things. It wouldn't have made a difference, in the end.  
  
  
It was still raining when they broke for lunch. Water pooled on the cement outside, forming puddles that overflowed and ran together in brackish swirls and eddies. In the distance, darker clouds hung threateningly on the horizon.  
  
Nakai picked at his bento. It wasn't very appetizing.  
  
Kimura came into the break room, pulling off his chef hat. He glanced at the mirror and ruffled his hair irritably, and then plopped down on the couch opposite Nakai and lit a cigarette.  
  
 _"--did you hear the one about-- --it was all over the tabloids--"_  
  
Nakai shoved rice grains around with his chopsticks. Someone had left a newspaper on the table; the entertainment section had slipped halfway out from its folds, revealing the corner of a grainy black-and-white photo that was already too familiar. Entertainment indeed.  
  
 _"--can't believe he'd date someone like that, she's such a--"_  
  
Kimura glanced at the hallway, sinking lower on the couch and propping his feet on the edge of the table. Nakai put the lid back on his bento.  
  
 _"--of course you know why it didn't last, the only way he'd get married was if--"_  
  
Kimura made a sudden snarling noise and kicked out, sending the newspaper flying. It scattered across the floor, pages rattling, burying the entertainment section in a landslide of words. Nakai lifted his eyes to look at his bandmate.  
  
"It's all shit," Kimura muttered, sitting up and stabbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. He pulled a new one out, and offered the pack to Nakai. "Smoke?"  
  
  
The worst part about it was how easily it could happen again. Even with the crush of managers and stylists and assistant directors that surrounded him on a daily basis, he couldn't be in that escort of safety all the time-- and he couldn't always assume that it _was_ safety. He lived in a world where everyone knew his face and he had to stay on guard and look over his shoulder and turn all the lights on and keep a baseball bat near the bed not that he was worried but just in case.  
  
It had been in those unattended moments, when everyone was running from one place to another and no one noticed just another person who walked like he belonged there-- Nakai had gone to the bathroom and a flicker of movement behind him had caught his eye, a shadow in the doorway that was there for a second and then gone. The coffee he'd left in his dressing room was gone when he'd come back. Someone had gotten onto the elevator after him on the first floor and stayed there even after Nakai had gotten off at the highest floor.  
  
The nightmares had been much less subtle.  
  
They'd caught him eventually-- red-handed, paging through an address book for much too long before someone realized something was wrong-- but it wasn't as reassuring as it ought to have been. Because it could happen again. Because when everyone turns to watch when you walk down the street, how can you tell the difference?  
  
  
The wind had picked up when they began filming again. It howled around the building as if it was trying to find a way in, and a murmur ran through the staff that maybe it was a typhoon, unseasonably late but not unheard of. Whatever it was, it swept the dark clouds in with it, ominous rumblings growling in the near distance.  
  
They paused after the cooking was done, waiting for the staff to take shots of the dishes. Nakai lingered in the studio, listening to his manager speculate on the weather with a cameraman. Goro wandered over to stand next to him, fidgeting with his hair nervously.  
  
A moment later, there was a thunderous _crack_ overhead, and the lights dimmed to nothing.  
  
There was a sudden calamity of a dozen people talking at once and pulling out their cell phones to use as flashlights. Goro bumped against his side in the dark, and a second later he felt fingers clutching at the hem of his shirt.  
  
The backup generator kicked in, emergency lights illuminating the hallways in dim patches. They waited, a hundred people lining the walls in varying shades of recognizability. Nakai excused himself to the bathroom to avoid being placed directly under a light-- the staff's kindness, he knew, but he wished they wouldn't-- and then realized, standing outside the darkened men's room, that this wasn't any better.  
  
Dammit, this was stupid, he was a grown man, he could damn well go to the bathroom in the dark and _someone might grab him from behind and put a hand over his mouth--_  
  
The sound of approaching footsteps made him turn. It was Goro, swinging a flashlight as he trotted down the hall after Nakai. He smiled faintly in the half-light. "I'll go too."  
  
  
He understood, now, why people believed in ghosts. He'd always rolled his eyes at the stories, but now he saw what drew people to them. It was easier to believe that something still lived on, some faint trace of existence even if it was full of anger, than to accept that nothing remained. It was comforting.  
  
Her hand had been wrinkled and frail, too weak to hold his tightly but still strong, still somehow _her_. And he'd thought, maybe he could believe in ghosts, if it meant holding onto her. If he could somehow feel that gentle hand clasping his own again, maybe she wouldn't disappear altogether.  
  
But that was silly, a dream invented to cling to what was already gone. She'd seen so many years already; why would she have wanted to be bound to the earth still longer by his selfishness? In time, he'd forget her anyway, and then there really would be nothing left.  
  
So maybe it was better not to believe in ghosts.  
  
A pile of ashes. That was it. That was all that was left.  
  
  
The storm continued to rage above them even as the last of the light left the sky. Rain coursed down the sides of the building, flowing into rivers that glimmered murkily in the emergency lights and twisted out of sight into the night beyond.  
  
Filming was canceled. Going home, it was decided, was also out of the question-- with the power out, the wind howling, and the rain still coming down in sheets, the trains were stopped and it was too dangerous to brave the Rainbow Bridge. So they were stuck at the studio, to spend the night in a dressing room.  
  
Nakai sat down on one of the futons the staff had given them, trying not to look at the mirror. The way the flashlight reflected off the surface made him uneasy, shadows flickering like candle flame. He could still hear the wind outside, searching hungrily.  
  
Next to him, Tsuyoshi was already stretched out in his futon, listening to music. Nakai wished he'd brought his music player with him; it was out in his car, a long walk through dim hallways and a dark, rainy parking lot.  
  
The wind shifted direction, rising in pitch. Nakai pulled the cover up and flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He should probably turn the flashlight off. He didn't need the light on, he slept better in the dark, it was just that if he turned it off it would just be the sound of the wind and his bandmate breathing and he might wake up suddenly and glance at the mirror and see--  
  
There was a tap on his shoulder. Nakai looked over; Tsuyoshi was holding out one of his earbuds, the cord stretched across the short space between the futons.  
  
"I don't think it means any harm," he murmured, smiling sleepily. "I'd be looking for a way in, too, if I was out there."  
  
  
When Nakai woke again, the music had stopped, and the wind outside had died down, leaving only the sound of rain. That wasn't what had woken him.  
  
In the dream, there had been a hand holding his. He couldn't look down to see what kind of hand it was; he could only feel it loosely grasping his own, and he couldn't tell if it was trying to console him or if it was seeking his comfort or if it would tighten like a vise and greedily snatch him away. He knew that if he just closed his fingers around it, he'd be able to tell, but he couldn't bring himself to because he didn't know if it was going to pull him forward or hold him back and in the end maybe the safest thing to do was to let go entirely--  
  
He sat up. He felt heavy, sluggish, like there was something sticky and black building up in his veins.  
  
He slid out of the futon and quietly stepped out into the hallway. The corridor was dotted with staff members, some stretched out or huddled under coats in an attempt to sleep. Nakai passed them by quickly, heading for the stairs.  
  
The door to the roof was unlocked; he pushed it open with both hands and stumbled out into the rain. An emergency light by the door shone into the dark, illuminating the downpour in sheets of silvery-grey, but he didn't want to be visible, not now, not like this. He stepped out beyond the pool of light and looked up.  
  
There's nothing wrong with him. He's not depressed, or sick, or having a mental breakdown. Tomorrow he will be fine. But right now, right now he just needs to turn his face up to the sky and let this rain fall on him. He needs it to soak his hair and clothes and shoes and pour over his skin like maybe it can carry away everything that's accumulated there, like maybe it can wash completely through him and leave nothing but clean emptiness. There's too much inside him, he can't contain it all, he doesn't know how to let it out without letting go of it altogether--  
  
Arms wrapped around him, circling his shoulders, followed by a chin resting on top of his head. It was Shingo, hugging him tightly, clutching Nakai to his chest as if he was trying shield him from the rain with his own body.  
  
Nakai lowered his chin, water trickling from the tip of his nose to Shingo's quickly-dampening sweatshirt sleeves. His youngest bandmate's warmth seeped through his back, thawing a chill he hadn't known was there.  
  
"Nakai-kun," Shingo said, softly. He didn't say _come inside, you'll catch your death out here and we care about you and I can't imagine living without you_ but Nakai heard it anyway, in the heat of his breath and the thump of his heartbeat and the curl of his fingers around Nakai's shoulders. He leaned back into that warmth, letting Shingo's arms tighten, secure, safe, alive, and then closed his eyes because something was melting inside of him and this was how you let it out after all.  
  
Shingo held him, strong and steady, warding off the rain. He held Nakai until he was done, until he'd stopped shaking and caught his breath and there wasn't anything else left. And he kept holding him a little longer, filling what might have been emptiness with love-- love that belonged to five people even if Shingo was the only one who knew how to give it so unconditionally--  
  
Then he let go, because it really was raining rather hard, and turned Nakai around. Nakai rubbed wet sleeves across his eyes, looking up.  
  
Shingo was holding out his hand. "Let's go inside." He smiled, despite the rain plastering his hair to his face and drenching his clothes, and waited for Nakai.  
  
Nakai took it. "Yeah," he said, closing his hand around Shingo's and feeling the younger man's fingers curl automatically in return. He wasn't going to let go, not this time. "Let's go in."  
  
He smiled down at their joined hands, and together they walked back inside.  
  
  
As the door shut, the downpour seemed to shift, and the frantic staccato of water began to slow to a quiet murmur.  
  
The rain was beginning to let up.


End file.
